


in the wild jungle

by songsmith



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Corruption, Gritty, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 14:03:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20472236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsmith/pseuds/songsmith
Summary: The city of Paraville is drowning in crime and corruption.  A young district attorney is trying to climb the political ladder enough to make a difference, but when his brother is one of the criminals, can he succeed?





	in the wild jungle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vandoorne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandoorne/gifts).

> The original prompt was:  
"would like peter and edmund to remain brothers in another universe. setting is up to you, but i like the following aus: teachers / detectives / sports (football, formula 1, ice hockey) / police officers / politicians / (rival?) politicians / space / pokemon / band / pop singers / wwii AU (where both brothers serve in the military)"
> 
> And of the additional prompt provided, I took my inspiration from this one:  
"- stray kids' miroh (https://youtu.be/Dab4EENTW5I)"
> 
> Hope I've managed to give you something you enjoy!

“‘LIONS’ ON RAMPAGE” screamed the headline on the Paraville Press, which was the first thing Edmund saw when he stepped out of the judge’s chambers. The article beneath it, no doubt full of histrionics over the latest acts of one of Paraville’s many gangs, clearly continued well past the fold and was accompanied by several blurry full-color shots of minor property damage. Long experience kept his wince purely internal, but his “Still reading that rag, Sal?” came out more curtly than he’d intended.

“If you know somewhere else to get the ball scores…” Sal Lopez, District Attorney, friend and occasional thorn in Edmund’s side, replied, emerging from behind said rag and mercifully folding it away into his briefcase.

“There’s a remarkable invention, Sal, called ‘television’,” Edmund began, only to have Lopez wave it off.

“How’d it go?” he asked instead, setting off toward the courthouse doors and dragging Edmund along in his wake.

“The files are in, the recording’s out.” He shrugged, echoed by Lopez’s equanimous nod; they hadn’t really expected any better. The PD had either ‘lost’ or never had a warrant for the recording which had captured Gunnar Brinkhaus dismissing the conditions of his properties in conversation with Jade Frost, the most powerful – and most criminal – woman in Paraville, but the thick files of citations and tenant maintenance requests dating back years – and the conspicuous _lack_ of anything resembling proper repair orders, while cheap spackle and paint jobs abounded – had been properly and carefully acquired immediately after the fire. That hadn’t stopped Brinkhaus’s well-paid legal team from challenging them, of course, and for a while there Edmund had been seriously concerned that Brinkhaus’s connections would pull enough strings – or lean on the right people – to sway Judge [???]’s ruling. “Maybe the civil cases will be able to make something of it,” he added as they reached the front door. The lawsuits would be grinding on for years; two people had died in the fire and the only mercy was that it had happened in the early afternoon, when most of the occupants were at work or school. 

“Yours is a happy nature,” Lopez replied, reaching for the door. “Brace yourself.” He pulled the massive door open, thereby alerting the waiting throng of vultures, who promptly descended on them both, shouting questions and snapping photographs.

Edmund plastered on his best ‘sober servant of justice’ expression and followed Lopez down the steps to the traditional speaking point (far enough down not to impede traffic, near enough for the cameras to get a nice framing of the courthouse). Lopez made a statement – intentionally vague and nothing he hadn’t said before, but the press always thought they were going to slip up and give away their entire line of prosecution before trial – about the progress in the case, then invited questions.

Predictably, the horde turned on Edmund. Resigned, he acknowledged one of those on the edge of the crowd. The less aggressive ones tended to be more tolerable, in his experience.

“Mr. Pevensie, many voters are concerned that your youth disqualifies you as a judge. How do you respond to these concerns?”

Or not. “I believe my experience in law speaks for itself,” Edmund replied levelly. “As for matters of… discernment, shall we say, age has no monopoly on wisdom. I hope the voters will welcome a candidate of my generation – we are, after all, deeply invested in building the future of Paraville.” Edmund kept the political smile fixed firmly in place, staring out into the distance just enough not to be blinded by the flashbulbs, and resigned himself to a conference that would have very little to do with the slum lord they were trying to put away.

***

The old-fashioned bell above the door rang cheerfully when Edmund stepped into the coffee shop on 4th Street. The interior was a shining refuge from the street outside, and he claimed a set at the counter, where he could put his back to the windows, which primarily looked out onto the rusting hulk of a long-stripped Buick chassis. A cup of coffee materialized in front of him before he could ask, and the waitress pulled out her order pad, pencil poised expectantly, without bothering to offer him a menu.

Edmund poured a splash of milk into his coffee and smiled up at her. “Whatever Angela’s baking today, thanks, Sarah,” he said, and she made a note on the slip and tossed it through the window to the kitchen before whisking off to deal with other customers. He sipped his coffee and waited patiently. Angela’s diner had become a regular spot for him mostly because of one of her kitchen staff, Thomas, who was willing to inform on some of the neighborhood crime. It was perhaps a bit non-standard for a lawyer to have informants rather than a cop, but when the cops were as likely to work for the local crime boss as try to arrest them, well. Plus, Angela made amazing pies.

Sarah had just set down a slice of today’s offering – plum and strawberry, apparently – when the bell jangled sharply. Edmund glanced over his shoulder and frowned, fingers curling into fists involuntarily. He didn’t recognize the first three men through the door, all of them bigger than they ought to be and carrying tools they certainly weren’t using in their day jobs, but the last man, carrying himself with a swagger that belied the ill-fitting suit and over-slicked hair, was all too familiar. Maurice Grinn, known around town simply as “Moe”, was Frost’s primary enforcer and bully-boy, and a familiar sight in the Ward Row as he collected various ‘fees’ and ‘dues’ that all boiled down to a protection racket stretching for miles.

Angela herself appeared at the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a towel and scowling. “We’ve paid, Grinn.” 

“Now, don’t be like that,” Grinn said, oily as his hair. “When a man just wants a cup of coffee, hey? Doesn’t do to be rude to the customers. Bad for business.”

“Four cups of coffee,” Angela said to Sarah. “To go, I assume.”

“We’ll take them here.” Grinn sauntered forward and flung himself onto the stool beside Edmund’s. Edmund tried to lean away as subtly as possible. The three toughs spread out, glaring indiscriminately at the other customers, who were suddenly losing their appetites.

Sarah set down a cup in front of Grinn, her hand shaking enough to rattle it in the saucer. Edmund caught her eye and glanced toward the tables in the back, where a couple of families were hastily dropping bills on the table and gathering their things. She hurried off, leaving Edmund sitting alone beside the last person in the world he wanted to talk to.

“Edmund Pevensie,” Grinn said, picking up his coffee. “Been a while.”

“Grinn,” Edmund acknowledged curtly, paying more attention to his pie than his neighbor.

“Assistant DA and running for the bench. Long way from the Row.”

“And yet here I am having pie.”

Grinn took a sip of the coffee and then leaned closer, setting his arm around Edmund’s shoulders as if they were old friends. “Now listen, Princeling, you’re making a big mistake here.”

“Somehow I don’t think I am,” Edmund replied, slipping free of the arm.

“Hey, you wanna be a judge, good for you – always nice to see a local kid make good, right? But you seem to be forgetting where you came from, and who helped you get there.” Edmund raised a sardonic brow, waiting for the punch line. “I’m just saying,” Grinn continued, “maybe folks would like to know you were one of ‘em. Plenty of us remember you as a tyke; we’d be happy to talk about it. Maybe even to the papers, hmm? Nice special interest story.”

So that was the lever Frost wanted to push: blackmail. “And if I’d rather not have your help with my campaign?”

“Far be it from me to push in where I’m not wanted,” Grinn replied. “But if you keep up this high-and-mighty routine with the local businesses, persecuting people for unavoidable accidents, well, that hurts some feelings, you see? Folks might think you ought to be reminded you’re one of us. Understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good!” Grinn drained his coffee in one loud slurp, dropping the cup carelessly back on the counter, and rose, slapping Edmund’s shoulder. “Glad we had this chat, Princeling. You always were a likely lad.” He tugged the cheap suit jacket straighter; a lost cause. “See you after the election, lad.”

Grinn swaggered out as he’d come in, trailing his bully-boys like ducklings in his wake. Edmund shook his head and fished out his wallet, dropping a few bills on the counter to cover his bill and a generous tip besides. Perhaps he’d have to avoid his usual haunts if Frost’s people were going to come after him.

***

Naturally, he confessed everything to Lopez. Sal listened to the bare bones of the tale, watching Edmund pace the office, and proceeded to pour him a drink and push him down into a chair. Half the glass later, Edmund was feeling a bit more rational and less inclined to throw every law book in Paraville at Grinn. 

“The question is,” he said, tipping his glass toward Sal, “are we screwed both ways?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Look, I don’t really care if the papers get word of my ‘misguided youth.’ I grew up in Frost’s slums; I did the same things everyone else did. Difference is, I got out. But if I land in the middle of a political shit-storm just as we’re trying to close the Brinkhaus trial… I don’t care how well they claim they have the jury sequestered; it’s going to leak.”

“Fair point,” Sal allowed. “So that’s the argument against letting them release it—”

“And if I pull out – whether from the trial or the election – that’s a news cycle all its own too, and likely to taint the verdict.”

“And throwing it is, of course, not an option.” Sal ran a finger around the rim of his glass idly. “I think you’re right; it’s going to be trouble either way. Frankly, I’d rather have you on the case than not, even if it comes out. Do you have a response planned?”

Edmund shrugged. “I’ve never tried to hide my past, so I imagine I’ll lead with that. The Chronicle even did that piece with the ‘kid from the wrong side of the tracks makes good’ spin, remember? If anyone thought a kid from Ward Row wasn’t doing a few jobs for the local gangs to get by, they need to reenter the real world.”

“And you think the society types in Glasswater Terrace understand the real world?” Sal’s tone could have desiccated the scotch they were sipping.

“You think the Glasswater types were voting for me over Othman anyway?” Edmund returned just as dryly.

Sal cackled. “You’re too young to be quite so cynical, Ed. Where are your campaign donations coming from, if not there?”

Edmund scowled, but the realities of the political process were what they were. “I’m doing rather well with smaller donors, considering the general apathy for down-ticket races.”

“And you don’t need much, given that apathy?” Sal suggested.

“Bad press might even help on the name recognition front,” Edmund admitted, only half joking. “I’m not sure half the electorate is aware there _is_ a campaign.”

“I did tell you to go for mayor.”

“And I’d rather live long enough to have an effect, thanks.” Othman had been running unopposed for years; the one time an opposition had been mounted, his challenger had been found dead in a grisly enough fashion to give the boy Edmund had been nightmares, and in circumstances salacious enough to guarantee the photos would be plastered in every gossip rag for weeks. “I’m old enough to remember Leone.”

Sal looked at his sour expression and changed the subject to the next day’s testimony. That ran long enough that, by the time Edmund made it home, he was tired enough to sleep without dreaming.

***

Despite the late night, Edmund was at the courthouse early, going over his notes before the trial began for the day. They ran long, well into the dinner hour, and late enough that the press gauntlet outside had been reduced to the legitimate news organizations, which meant the questions actually had a chance of being about the trial.

He headed back to the office, knowing Lopez would still be there, waiting for an update. It had actually been a good day; they’d put up a couple of city inspectors in the morning for the bare, factual accounting, then after lunch some of the tenants for a more visceral description of conditions inside the building. Edmund was fairly certain he’d spotted one juror crying, and a few others were tight-lipped in fury. It was a good sign.

Sal was just as pleased when he heard Edmund’s report. “We might actually get somewhere with this one,” he said. “Well done. The permit research you wanted got here, by the way.” He gestured to a table behind Edmund. “Don’t stay up all night reading it; I want you sharp for tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” Edmund said, “I want to get him as much as you do.” He rose to collect the files on his way out. Sal’s paper was lying beneath them, opened and re-folded to convenient reading size. It was probably the ball scores Sal had been after again, but the sports page lay face-down and instead a news article stared up at Edmund. He froze, skimming the text quickly and with a growing pit in his stomach.

“You all right?”

He actually jumped a little, having forgotten entirely he was still standing in Sal’s office. “I – yeah. Fine. Just… realizing I skipped lunch and dinner.”

“Oh, for the focus of the young,” Sal mourned. “Go eat, idiot, and rest up for tomorrow.”

“Right,” Edmund replied, snagging the newspaper discreetly. “Will do. See you tomorrow.”

***

Edmund slammed into the house on London Street, the half-crumbling townhouse he’d grown up in and hadn’t seen in ten years. But the back door’s lock still came free when you pressed the latch to the side and lifted the door slightly, just as it had when he was young, and _god_, why was that? He had money – _they_ had money enough to buy a new goddamn lock for thirty bucks down the hardware store, why leave a bloody invitation to every neighborhood lightfingers—

“Because these days, the lightfingers work for me,” said a voice from what they had once dramatically called the parlor, making him aware that he’d been ranting aloud. A moment later, the owner of that voice appeared at the door, looking no different than he had the last time they’d met: golden haired, tall and seeming taller with the perfect posture the army had drilled into him. Maybe a few more lines around the eyes, a few strands of grey in his hair, but overall it might have been five days and not five years. “Hello, Edmund,” his older brother said.

“Peter,” he replied, feeling rather foolish suddenly. Peter had often had that effect on him, reducing him to a stammering, awkward-feeling twelve with just a word.

“What brings you here? It can’t be nostalgia, with that ranting on your way in.”

Just like that, the awkwardness vanished, and Edmund remembered the fury that had driven him here. He raised a hand, slapping the _Paraville Press_ into Peter’s chest. “That!” he growled. “What the hell are you doing?”

Peter retrieved the paper, turning it to read the article which had caught Edmund’s eye. “’Local businessman found dead.’ Well, I suppose they can’t call Grinn a henchman in print,” he mused. “But what makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

“Aside from the fact that no one else would dare,” Edmund snapped, “do you think I don’t recognize the Lions’ handiwork when I see it? When my brother’s been running them for years? When the damn police reports land on my desk every time one of your gung-ho idiots gets their fool self arrested and charged?”

Peter said nothing for a moment, looking down at the paper thoughtfully. “All right,” he admitted finally, “say I did give the order. I still don’t see why you’re ranting in my hallway.”

“You ordered your own ‘henchmen’ to commit murder and you don’t understand why I’m upset?” Edmund was aware that his voice was rising steadily, and remembered how thin the walls were, but around here people ignored their neighbors’ fights anyway.

Peter just looked at him with that vague disappointment he’d used to greet missing homework and failed tests with, once upon a time. “You can’t have wanted Grinn continuing to run about playing enforcer for Frost.”

“I’d have been thrilled to see him in prison,” Edmund agreed, “but that’s not exactly where a six-inch knife in the ribs lands someone.”

“He’d never have ended up in prison,” Peter pointed out. “He was arrested and released how many times when we were young? And these days the cops don’t even bother – half of them work for Grinn directly and the other half are either paid to look away or cowards. There’s only one way he was getting off the streets and you know it.”

“We’re working on it,” he snapped, temper rising again. “Brinkhaus is going down and we never thought _that_ was possible before either. Paraville’s changing, Pete, and it doesn’t need any _more_ gangs running around smashing in storefronts and _killing_ people!”

Peter stepped forward, newspaper crumpling in his clenched fist. “Changing? Because one slumlord will – maybe! – get a few years of a prison sentence? As if that made a dent in the racketeering and the extortion, the graft and the drugs. You used to know what it was like down here, Ed! The only way it’s going to get any better is by clearing out the people responsible, and keeping them out!”

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing, Peter?” Edmund stepped up into his space, glaring, and was momentarily shocked to realize they were actually the same height these days. “My entire career has been about clearing out the people responsible for this mess! Most days I try to forget that my own _brother_ managed to turn himself into one of the people I ought to be clearing out, but some days you just go too far!”

“I’m not the one hobnobbing with Frost’s cronies in Glasswater,” Peter growled back. “I’m the one making sure people don’t get their stores broken up because their ‘security fees’ were a day late, or running the dealers off the corners near schools, or keeping the goddamn _electricity_ on!”

Edmund shoved him, too furious to limit himself to words. “No, you’ll happily break up stores yourself, or do you think I didn’t see those stories too?”

“I’m certainly not going to cry if Vardan’s false front gets knocked about while my people are doing something about his drug running crew,” Peter snapped. “Time was, neither would you. Been drinking there much yourself, or is that waiting until after elections?”

“You --!” He raised his hands to shove again, but this time Peter was faster, raising an arm to ward him off with almost insulting ease. Edmund came around again with a fist, and Peter grabbed his wrist, so he kicked out, catching just the cuff of Peter’s jeans as his brother hopped aside. They tussled in the narrow hall, but it was increasingly one-sided – Edmund’s handful of dirty tricks picked up for survival against Peter’s years in the army – until with a quick twist and lift Peter slammed him up against the wall. 

Air left him in a solid whoosh, and his head knocked hard enough to make his vision flash white for an instant. For long seconds all Edmund could do was slump against his brother’s grip and try to breathe. As sense returned, so did awareness of the solid curve of Peter’s hands, holding him steady without effort, and the near-wall of heat from the body close enough that a deep breath would make them touch. Instead, Edmund was panting, short light breaths that couldn’t seem to fill his lungs well enough. He brought his hands up inside Peter’s, intending to break the grip that pinned him, but instead found his hands wrapped around Peter’s biceps with bruising force, creating a new lock between them.

Peter’s hands relaxed, Edmund sliding down the wall until his feet once more touched the floor, but without that support he couldn’t seem to catch his balance. The wall behind him and his grip on Peter held him up; his knees certainly weren’t doing the job right. Peter’s hands slid down, tugging his dress shirt up to bare skin, and settled at his waist, warm and rough with callus.

Edmund’s lips formed a word; he wasn’t even sure what it was himself, but no sound escaped anyway. His throat was dry enough to click when he swallowed, and the air still seemed too thin. His fingers curled and twisted into the fabric of the t-shirt Peter wore. Peter’s eyes had focused on his lips when he tried to speak, impossibly dark and distractingly blue all at once, and then they were too close to see color any longer and Peter’s lips were pressed against his, firm and warm and demanding and he kissed back without thought, lips parting on what might have been a moan or a gasp. 

Whatever it was, it was swallowed up, muffled to nothing by the tongue that pounced on that opening, and Edmund’s thoughts had gone to nothing except the sensations of their mouths meeting, except that Peter’s hands were wandering again, sliding inside his waistband to cup his ass, the palms feeling far hotter than they had any right to, searing hot and he rocked back against them only to be pulled back in tighter. The bulge in Peter’s jeans pressed against his thigh, and he was uncomfortably aware that the much thinner fabric of his dress slacks was lewdly tented. And becoming painful; there wasn’t enough space in these trousers for him, Peter’s hands, and his growing interest in what Peter’s hands were up to.

Fortunately, Peter seemed just as aware of this. Even as one hand continued to knead and stroke, the other left off in favor of unfastening Edmund’s fly. Edmund let his hands travel downwards as well, not quite consciously thinking of returning the favor but somehow getting there all the same. The denim was harsh on his fingers, the metal teeth of the zipper catching a little sharp on the side on his hand, and then Peter was dragging him closer, hip to hip.

Some little voice in Edmund’s brain was chanting _bad idea, bad idea, bad idea!_ Unfortunately, or perhaps the reverse, a smaller, lower brain was in charge at the moment and thought it a _ fine_ idea indeed. He rutted up against Peter’s stomach, cloth and skin sliding against his cock, and it was almost perfect – and then Peter turned a little so that their cocks aligned, and wrapped his hand around both of them, and it was perfect, and he reached up to drag Peter’s head down, fingers twisted into the short hairs at the neck. The kiss was bruising and had far too much tooth involved, but that was all right, it was an edge he needed with Peter’s fingers tracing irregular loops over both their cocks, calluses catching the skin less and less as he picked up more lubrication with every journey over the heads. 

He dragged his mouth down, teasing nipping kisses through evening-rough stubble over Peter’s throat, and applied it more seriously to a spot just below the ear, worrying the skin with teeth and tongue until he was sure a bruise would be blooming there tomorrow. Peter cried something that might have been his name, might have been a curse, and his hand clenched almost painfully and that was enough, that was too much; Edmund shuddered down to his bones and came, muffling his own cry against the mark he was raising on Peter’s skin.

***  
Edmund wasn’t entirely certain how he’d ended up asleep on the sagging twin mattress in his old room. All he knew was the scent of coffee creeping into the room and the sunlight stabbing him in the eyes conspired to wake him, and send him stumbling out of bed to splash water on his face and try to cudgel his brain into motion.

By the time he found his way into the kitchen, somewhat more awake and ineffectually brushing wrinkles out of yesterday’s suit, Peter was at the stove whisking eggs in a pan. Edmund reached past his shoulder to open the cabinet of mugs, Peter leaning to the left as the door swung open without missing a beat in his stirring. 

The coffee was hot and fresh and still managed to taste like it had been burning in the bottom of the pot for hours. He drank it without bothering to look for the milk and sugar his caffeine-purist brother would not have, and tried not to look at the purple blotch beneath Peter’s ear, perfectly visible above the collar of his shirt.

Peter dropped a plate in front of him, scrambled eggs and toast, settling at the other end of the table with his own. Edmund blinked down at the eggs; there was cheese in them, and they were flecked with green from the herbs Peter always added and he never bothered with on a rushed morning.

“Stop staring and eat,” Peter said, around a mouthful of his own. “You’ve got an hour to get to the courthouse, and you’re not letting Brinkhaus get off because you annoyed the judge running in late. You can have the rest of the fight this weekend, if you like.” Edmund transferred his blinking confusion to Peter, even as he picked up the fork on auto-pilot. His brother just smirked at him, and sipped the vile excuse for coffee. “_One_ of us is going to clean up this town, little brother,” Peter said. “I’m not sure I care which, as long as we do.”


End file.
